


Backs to the wall

by Trojie



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Fake Marriage, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-<i>Inception</i>, Arthur and Eames take what should be a routine corporate job together. It goes south, and Arthur comes to the conclusion that actually, Eames is a hell of a lot more professional than he is.</p><p>Written for cats_fiend at the Eames_Arthur fanfic exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Backs to the wall

After the Fischer job, Cobb bails on Arthur. Kids, y'know. Restored perfect life. He's lying low and teaching architecture, and he's _happy_. Arthur fought hard enough for Cobb to have that that he can be happy for him.

However, it does leave Arthur with a few employment issues. He's doesn't generally work as an extractor in his own right - he doesn't like the uncertainties involved in piling lie upon lie. He can do architecture, but he can't build mazes. He can't forge much either. Mostly what he's good at is being good enough at things to cover up for someone else's deficiencies. That and research. And a certain amount of precise, directed violence when all else fails.

He does a couple of jobs with Rodriguez, and he does two on his own and then decides not to do any more, and then, more from running into him at an opportune moment than anything else, he takes a corporate job with Eames.

This works perfectly, probably because for most of the prep-work they're on different continents - Arthur buried in petty bureaucracy at the company's headquarters in Berlin (his German is rusty but he picks it back up fairly fast), and Eames chasing the aging CEO on holiday to Trinidad. They take turns at calling each other for a strictly-controlled half an hour every night, pretending to be a couple. Couples have endearments and mutual friends and in-jokes that can be easily turned into a kind of code - it's as good a cover as anything, and Eames lives for his covers. He's been so professional Arthur could kiss him. In fact, when they finally do have to meet up and do the actual extraction, Arthur probably will kiss him. It's a pity Eames will think it's all part of the act.

It's a sad day for Arthur when he realises Eames is being more professional about a job than he is.

And then one night Eames phones him out of turn. 'Hello darling,' he says. 'Missing me?' His voice is tight despite the camouflage phrases of their supposed relationship.

'Not as much as you're missing me, apparently,' Arthur says, trying to guess what the problem is.

'Well, I'm missing you so much I've booked you a ticket out to come see me.' Eames is trying very hard to inject some genuine enthusiasm into his voice, and it's probably quite likely that anyone listening would think he was genuinely excited to be surprising a lover, but Arthur can hear the nuances that tell him that Eames is worried. 'I know we said we'd wait for our anniversary, but I've got a surprise for you out here that simply will not wait. It's a brilliant opportunity, I swear. You'd kick yourself, and probably me too, if I let you miss it. Do say you'll come out to visit?'

'If I ask, I might be able to get Friday off - is a weekend long enough?'

'Ample time, darling. Ample.'

Something is seriously wrong - from the sound of it, Eames wants to move the schedule up by a week and a half. Either his cover is seriously close to being blown or there's some window of opportunity to get at the mark that is perfect enough to risk speeding things up. But Arthur doesn't have enough _data_ to start guessing the whys and wherefores, goddamit.

Screw it. Eames knows the risks. Arthur packs his suitcase, swaps his Friday with Frieda for her next day off, and is gone as soon as the e-ticket number comes through on his email.

***

Eames meets him at Piarco International, looking very brown and acting extremely affectionate. He hauls Arthur into his arms for a hug and mutters in his ear, 'We have a problem.'

Arthur puts his hands carefully at the small of Eames's back and leans into his shoulder - intimate and also at a good talking distance. 'I figured,' he mutters, adjusting his hands and starting to push away. 'Where are we staying?' he asks, louder.

Eames lets him go, and picks up his bag instead. 'I've got us an apartment in Marabella, you're going to love it. I found it by complete serendipity the first week I was here, and it's been a godsend.'

Arthur takes the bag back. 'Sounds wonderful. Shall we go?'

Eames insists on taking Arthur's suitcase, and opening the car door for him. They haven't actually talked over the parameters of this apparent relationship of theirs, so Arthur is inclined to let this improv slide. It's convincing, fine, so he'll go with it, at least until they have the privacy to talk over how they're going to run this particular facet of their con, because things like how they hold hands and whether or not one of them can put his arm around the other need to look natural.

Besides, they both tend to the twitchy when in dangerous situations - unexpected hugs from one’s boyfriend aren't usually supposed to end in someone collapsed on the floor clutching their ruptured testicles, at least not in polite society. So they need to know if they have to be on the lookout for that kind of tactile affection.

When they get into his car, Eames lays a finger briefly over his lips, and turns the radio on. Talk radio is what he eventually settles on, twisting knobs like it's going out of fashion, and he turns it up to a moderate volume.

'Nice upholstery,' Arthur says, relaxing back into the seat and adjusting his sun-visor, eyeing the interior of the car with some interest, to see if he can spot the bug.

'Authentic beige velour,' Eames agrees. 'No expense spared. C'mon, let's get you home and then I can fill you in on all the scandal.'

'Home' turns out to be a well-appointed little apartment in what Arthur takes to be the suburb of Marabella. Eames gives him the tour, pointing out the view of the city and the delightful bathroom fittings, gesticulating expansively in front of the largest of the windows, before sitting Arthur down on the sofa.

'Sorry about that, and the business in the car, but better safe than sorry,' Eames says. 'I lost the first tail on my way to get you, but I figured we'd probably pick up a second one on the way home, and God alone knows what ridiculous surveillance ideas our mark has. So I try not to say anything particularly interesting in the car. I do try to sing as badly as I know how whenever Bruce Springsteen comes on the radio, though.

'You think the car's bugged?'

'Fairly certain. But if he's got one bug on me he's less likely to get antsy about the fact that he's not got any others.'

'The house?'

'Clean. But watched.'

Arthur files this away. 'Are we extracting early, or are we running?' he asks, stretching and pillowing his cheek on the back of the couch in an effort to disguise the movements of his lips.

'I've got a potential opening on Thursday,' Eames says. 'How long, real-world time, do you think we need?'

'To get a few passwords?' Arthur considers. 'He's paranoid as hell he's going to be kidnapped or shot, but everything I've been hearing suggests he doesn't even think dream-crime is possible. He won't be militarised, just jumpy. Fifteen minutes, half an hour ought to do it.'

'So if we can get past his bodyguards, we might have a shot.' Eames considers this. 'He's going to the theatre on Thursday -'

Arthur stops listening right about then, because movement catches his eye from outside the window - someone on the balcony of the building opposite. Could be just someone out for a smoke … no.

Arthur's not carrying, because it's a bitch to get a hand-gun through Customs, but he knows Eames is, in a holster on his hip, the hip closest to Arthur, so when Arthur sees the guy in the other building go for his weapon he leans in.

'Don't take this the wrong way,' he begins, sliding his hands over Eames's hips, and then decides _to hell with it_ , and kisses him at the same time he lifts Eames's Browning pistol. Their assassin gets into Arthur's sightlines right when Eames decides to shove his hand in one of Arthur's back pockets and squeeze, which means they hit the carpet together when Arthur tries to shove Eames out of the line of fire. He drags himself back up to a kneeling stance fast.

'Stay down,' he says, when Eames starts to get up. The forger stops moving as soon as Arthur speaks, but he shifts enough that Arthur knows he's watching the other window.

'How many?' Eames asks.

'One out this side. You?'

'Clear.'

Arthur takes one shot, and then two - the assassin ducks and weaves, but the third catches him in the shoulder, makes him drop his gun, and suddenly Eames is up like a jack-in-the-box and dragging Arthur with him, out the living room door and around a corner, into the ... linen closet? Which is a lot bigger than Arthur would have thought, and includes a lightswitch.

And a small armoury. Eames is busy pulling things out of bags and shoving them in his pockets. He hands Arthur a Glock 17 with a tight smile. 'Your favourite,' he says. 'Happy anniversary.'

'Holster?'

'Take your pick.' And yeah, there are options. Ammunition too.

'Where did you _get_ all of this?' Arthur asks, tooling up.

Eames pauses, his hand on the door. 'You aren't the only one with contacts, Arthur. And I don't know about you, but all my research told me Dearlove's a paranoiac with a Die Hard complex. So I decided we could use a little insurance.'

Arthur chambers a round, and then smiles. 'Good thinking.'

'I'm not just a pretty face,' Eames says. 'Trophy husband or not.'

'I thought I was the trophy husband?' Arthur says drily, as Eames eases the door open. The place may or may not be surrounded by now, they need to be careful.

'You may have the arse but you also have the brains,' Eames points out. 'Whereas when I play bimbo, I play it to the hilt.' As they've been talking, they've been making their way, low, towards the front door. 'Plus, when you have three instances of the word 'assistant' in your job title, no-one takes you seriously, particularly not the CEO. Dearlove thinks I'm just your stooge.'

'Doesn't stop him having you followed,' Arthur points out, checking the peephole on the front door.

'Not by anyone with more than a pea-shooter, before you turned up. Oh no, you're definitely the threat. I told you that charge of going equipped in New Zealand would come back to bite you in the arse.'

'Fucking Kiwis,' Arthur mutters, despite himself. 'A man can't even defend himself in that stupid country.'

'No guns means precious little gun crime,' Eames points out. 'Anyway, water under the bridge. No-one died, and my arm healed eventually.' His voice turns serious again. 'I doubt they'll be waiting for us in the stairwell, so down and out to the car on the double, yes?'

'Sure.'

'I'll be tail-end Charlie if you want point?'

Arthur rolls his eyes. 'Point-man doesn't always have to be literal, asshole.'

'You love it. Get your arse down those stairs, husband-mine,' Eames says, grinning a wicked grin that spells bad bad times ahead for anyone who tries to get behind them, and shoves the door open. The trip to the street is uneventful, and Arthur hastily jams the gun into his trouser pocket just before they get outside, because openly carrying is never a good look, no matter where you are or what the gun laws happen to be.

Eames does the same, and their apartment building door bangs closed behind him as they head towards their car. But someone is leaning a little too casually on the hood. Eames catches Arthur by the elbow and leans in close. 'Keep walking,' he mutters in Arthur's ear. 'That's Stevens, Dearlove's chief of security.' They get closer and closer to the car and the loiterer watches them a little too casually for Arthur's comfort as they approach.

Movement catches Arthur's eye up high. 'Two more at eleven o clock,' he says, and Eames's arm winds around Arthur's waist as he looks up and marks them. 'We're gonna have to run soon,' Arthur says. The car's out of the question, so he starts considering options. 'Any ideas?'

'The building two to our right is empty,' Eames says. 'And I jimmied the lock last week, just in case. If Stevens starts moving, go for it. I'll follow you.'

Arthur disagrees. 'You know the place - you go. I'll cover you.'

Eames's arm tightens around his waist, and the forger presses a quick kiss to the spot underneath Arthur's ear. ' _Go,_ ' he says, and as Stevens reaches for his weapon they both bolt - Eames for the door of the empty building and Arthur for the car nearest it. He makes it in time to pop Stevens one in the shoulder as he takes aim at Eames - the two higher up have an impossible angle if they want to get a clear shot on either of them, but they're moving.

There's a clank and a jangle, and Arthur gets off two more shots, trying to make Stevens keep his head down, before Eames gets the door open. 'Arthur,'

Arthur goes, practically crawling on his hands and knees to keep low, and then the door slams behind him. It's dark and dusty in the hallway of the building.

'Well, this is a pretty pickle,' says Eames, somewhere in the shadows. Arthur holsters his Glock and feels his way further into the building, in case anyone gets any clever ideas about shooting at the door.

'C'mon, up,' he says, forging towards the stairs. Eames falls into step with him.

'Ideas?' he asks. As they get further up the stairs towards the light gets brighter, although it's still dim grey and dirty.

'We should hole up and sneak out later,' Arthur says, shrugging. 'The police'll be all over this place if there's much more gunfire, if they aren't already on their way.'

'If anyone spotted us coming in here, we're stuck,' Eames points out. 'We need a way out.'

'What about those contacts of yours?'

'You'd need a helicopter to get us out of here. I don't have that kind of contact out here.'

They've got to the first floor, which is an old office, from the looks of the decrepit desks and filing cabinets left behind. Arthur frowns at the potential sightlines through the fly-speckled windows, and then says, 'We do have one option.' He looks at Eames, one eyebrow raised. He hates to suggest this, but if they'd like to get out of here without more breathing-holes than they came in with, and maybe even without a record in Trinidad, they don't have a lot of choices.

Eames scrubs a weary hand over his face. He knows exactly who Arthur is talking about. 'Does he even have business in Trini?'

'Since Fischer-Morrow went down, he's got business everywhere, I guarantee it.'

There's a bang as of a door being kicked in, and Eames's eyes flick to the stairs, then back to Arthur. He points a thumb at himself and then at the stairs, and then nods at Arthur, and makes a cellphone of his free hand. His meaning is clear - make the call. Arthur nods, then lays a finger over his lips. Eames rolls his eyes, and glides back down the way they came.

Arthur won't make the call until he knows the threat downstairs is neutralised, so he waits.

Five tense, quiet minutes pass - Arthur only hears heavy footsteps or creaks, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and then he hears a very final kind of a thud, then the sound of someone coming back up the stairs. He wedges himself in behind a filing cabinet, draws the Glock, and takes careful aim. He releases his breath when the dragging steps resolve themselves into Eames coming in. He's distinctly worse for wear - shirt untucked and marked with grime, scratch marks down his throat, hair dishevelled, but at least it _is_ Eames, and not one of Dearlove's men, and he doesn't look like he's bleeding or broken anywhere.

'Well, I can kiss my clean record in the Caribbean goodbye,' Eames says a little ruefully. 'Another bloody passport down the bloody drain.'

'You've got seven,' Arthur points out.

'This was the last clean one. Good thing I still have some favours to call in.'

'How many floors is this building?' Arthur asks. 'Even when I make the call it'll take Saito a couple hours to get someone out to us, and either Dearlove's men or the police are going to come after us. We need a clear route to the roof, and somewhere to hide.'

'Five,' Eames says. 'There's a fire escape to the roof, and the top floor used to be a flat.'

'Perfect.'

Arthur, still wedged in behind his filing cabinet, just in case, gets out his cellphone just as the first bullet crashes through the windowpane.

Saito picks up just as Eames decks the first guy to duck through the doorway.

'As I hear gunfire in the background, I will not enquire as to how you got this number,' the businessman says calmly. 'I will merely ask, is this Arthur?'

'Got it in one,' Arthur says grimly, taking aim at the doorway at about throat-height. 'We're -'

'In Trinidad, dealing with a Mister Dearheart,' Saito finishes for him. 'Your job has not gone well. You require assistance to escape. I can have a helicopter at your location in two hours.'

A target comes through the doorway. Arthur pulls his trigger. Eames has his hands around a third man's throat, a knee in his solar plexus.

'I hope you will be in a position to board it,' Saito adds. 'Good luck, Arthur.'

'Thanks -' is all Arthur manages to get in before Saito hangs up. He jams the phone back in his pocket. 'Eames?'

'I'm good,' the forger says roughly, with a final shove at his limp adversary. 'These won't be the last of them, Arthur, we've got to move.'

'Let's get that stairwell blocked first,' Arthur suggests, and puts his shoulder to the filing cabinet. It moves pretty easily - mostly empty - and together they manhandle it down to the stairs, wedging it sideways in the passage. Another filing cabinet and a desk follow it, until there's no space to maneouvre, and then Arthur leaves Eames to jam chairs in any gaps, and goes to rifle the pockets of their attackers. He's not hopeful, but you've got to be thorough. There's probably only a one in a million chance that one of them is carrying a set of written instructions or something, but that's still one chance.

'Anything?' Eames asks, coming back into the room.

'Hah,' Arthur straightens up. 'C'mon, let's get up higher.'

They block each subsequent stairwell as they climb, and avoid the windows. By the time they hit the third floor, banging noises from below alert them to the fact that they're still being chased.

'An hour and a half until Saito's chopper gets here,' Arthur says, wiping a hand across his forehead. Eames nods, and does likewise, leaving a smear of blood over his face. Arthur squints. 'You're bleeding,' he points out.

Eames shakes his hand out and looks at it quizzically. 'Must have caught it on a splinter or something.' He then proceeds to stick it in his mouth and say around it, 'Not to worry.'

'Give that here,' Arthur says, rolling his eyes. He delves in his pockets and comes up with a handkerchief, which he wraps around the meat of Eames's hand. The scratch is long and shallow along the ball of his thumb. 'Leaving your DNA all over the place is not going to help your ability to stay off Interpol's radar,' he points out.

'Bit late now,' Eames points out, but doesn't take push Arthur away. 'And anyway, it's not like I'm the only source of the stuff,' he adds. 'And probably more to come. Those barricades will buy us some time, and we'll get more if we keep building, but how about a little present for the people currently dismantling them down below?'

'What are you suggesting?' Arthur asks, letting Eames's hand go, satisfied with his wrapping job.

'Let's build the next two, yeah, but leave a gap I can crawl through until the last minute?'

'Why?'

Eames wriggles his unhurt hand into one trouser pocket, an impish smile on his face, and pulls out two grenades. Arthur resists the urge to facepalm. Only people on the internet actually facepalm. Anyway, after a second, he can't help but grin. 'I knew there was a reason I married you,' he says facetiously, and reaches for the little explosives. Eames hides them behind his back with a mock-pout.

'You only love me for the contents of my trousers.'

'I love you for the contents of your brain, you idiot. So, we leave a gap in the higher barricades as we make them, come back down here, wait til we hear movement on the next staircase down, and then drop the grenade through?'

'And run like hell, but yes, that was the general gist of the plan.'

'Good plan,' Arthur says. 'Good plan.'

'Coming from you, Arthur, I think that's the highest compliment I've ever received.'

'Don't let it go to your head. C'mon, let's get this done.'

***  
They're waiting behind the third barricade, listening to the scuffling noises get louder and louder, when Arthur hears the pump-action of a shotgun. He triangulates for a split second before realising that it doesn't matter _where_ it's being aimed, the odds of a pellet hitting either of them are high.  
Eames pulls the pin and lobs the grenade through their carefully-selected gap in the barricade before turning and running for the next one up, dragging Arthur with him. Arthur pulls himself free and they bolt together.

'Go,' Eames says, shoving at Arthur in a way he would object to if he were thinking straight. He's wriggled halfway through their barrier when the grenade goes off, and the world goes very loud and very dark for a moment. As soon as the shaking stops, he keeps going determinedly, and waits for Eames to follow.

Eames doesn't.

'Eames?'

'I'm fine,' Eames calls back after a second. 'Stuck, but fine.'

'I'm coming back for you,' Arthur says.

'Not on your life.'

'Not your call.' Checking the Glock is where he left it, snug in its holster, rather than fallen out in the maze of broken furniture, he starts back through the barricade. 'Can you hear anyone moving?' he asks as he does so.

'Not a dicky-bird,' Eames replies, and his voice is a little too nonchalant. 'We might have bought ourselves a bit of time.'

'How badly are you hurt?' Arthur asks. There's air beneath his feet now – the barricade is only a few feet thick. He gets his toes on the step, and keeps going.

'Not as bad as you're imagining, I expect,' says Eames. 'Just stuck, is all.'

Arthur gets his shoulders and head out, and turns around. Eames isn't joking about being stuck. He's got his left shoulder pinned under a fallen piece of joist, wedged with bits of broken desk. The grenade must have sent shrapnel ricocheting through the old, weak ceiling.

Arthur rolls up his sleeves. 'We've got to get up to the fifth floor, even if we're picking them off through the barricade by the time the chopper gets here,' he says, and heaves at the obstruction.

'I don't disagree on any particular point,' Eames says, strained. He pushes at the joist with his free hand. 'How much time do we have now? An hour?'

'Half,' Arthur grunts. The thick wooden desk-top he's pulling at starts to come free – plaster dust puffs around them – the reason it's been so hard to move is that it's been embedded in the _wall_. 'I'm never letting you choose the explosives again.'

'Noted.'

Desk gone, Arthur turns his attention to the joist, or whatever it is. It's a four-foot long piece of timber, full of old nails, and there's a hole in the ceiling directly above it, so Arthur assumes it's a piece of that. They'll have to remember not to venture out on the floor of the fourth level, he thinks, before realising that they wouldn't anyway, they're heading for the fifth.

Eames makes a harsh, pained gasping noise as it comes free, and Arthur shoves it awkwardly to one side, barely managing to get his foot out of the way as it crashes down, before kneeling to take a look at Eames's shoulder. It's not too bad. Probably painful, bleeding a bit, and it'll bruise like hell, but he can be moved. He's going to have to.

'Can you move it?' he asks, watching Eames's movements with a critical eye. The forger flexes his shoulder, wincing as he does so, but his fingers will wiggle and his joints all bend in the right ways and no bits of bone are sticking out. He'll live.

'Enough,' Eames says shortly. 'Let's get further up.'

***

They're out of grenades, and out of furniture, and almost out of ammunition. Arthur checks chamber, and scowls. 'They're catching us up.'

'Saito's late.'

'I know.'

'We have to narrow their access.'

'I _know_.' Arthur glares at Eames, and Eames looks back at him with an even expression. They've managed to staunch the bleeding from his shoulder using bits of both of their now-ruined shirts, but he's in pain, Arthur can tell.

'Ideas?'

Arthur looks around the floor. They're in the living room, which is the main space. There is a bedroom to the right, with the fire escape to the roof out the bedroom window – they're going to be sitting ducks out there if Dearlove has snipers on the surrounding buildings – and a bathroom to the left. Choices, choices. Except not really.

'Bedroom,' he says, trying not to let any particular inflection creep into the word.

Eames raises an eyebrow, and says drily,'I thought you'd never ask.'

It's kind of anticlimactic, though – they walk into the bedroom, shut the door, open the window, and then sit down on the other side of the bed, trying to keep low and out of any potential sightlines. And that's their defence.

'I don't want to sound negative,' Eames says after a moment, 'But if was me trying to get at us, I'd have gunmen on the next building over.'

'Me too.'

Eames doesn't say 'We're going to die,' or 'I'll stay here and hold them off' or even 'It's been nice knowing you.' What he says is, 'So we'll have to be fast.'

His hands are broad and sure on the Browning, held ready, resting on his thigh, and his face is smeared with blood (mostly, but not all, his own), and as he looks sideways at Arthur his face is actually … happy. Well. Enthusiastic. Fired-up, definitely. That would be the adrenaline. Arthur is feeling that himself, to be honest.

There's a bang from the floor below, and another, and then a crunching noise.

'They're getting through the barricade,' Eames says evenly. He looks at his watch. 'Our ride's ten minutes late.'

What the hell. 'Quick,' Arthur says in his 'business' voice, and knows he's not nearly as professional as everyone thinks he is. 'Gimme a kiss.'

It worked before. It works this time - Eames leans over with no resistance and his mouth slides open over Arthur's. He tastes like blood and gunmetal, his lips are chapped and rough, bitten in places, and Arthur tries to sooth them with his tongue only to be bitten for his pains, which makes him grin against Eames's skin.

Their free hands (the ones that aren't holding weaponry) start making tentative exploratory moves right about the time Arthur registers the sound of someone chambering a round on the other side of the door.

They both pull away in the same instant and level their pistols at the door, but before they can do a thing someone kicks in the window.

'Would you gentlemen care for a lift?' says Saito, lowering his semi-automatic.


End file.
